Death of an Alchemist Read Free

lost with time—compassion.
    The bearer retrieved the paint pot and wedged it against the bodies. He took up the handles and the doctor watched him push the cart down the lane until he turned the corner. Another day, another dead. The doctor went back inside to collect his satchel.
    Surely there must be something he could take in payment for his trouble. He worked a half-burned taper from a wall sconce and took the candle on the table. Two water urns sat against a wall, but he had no need for the bulky vessels. Looking about for any cheese or fruit, he realized that the patient, Walter, hadn’t even a crumb to eat. As he took up the bowl of leeches to throw into the lane, the rustling of wings reminded him of the bird in the corner. Perhaps the landlord might sell it for profit. He had no interest in the fowl, though he did admire its colorful plumage. With the bowl in hand, he picked up his bag and started for the door.
    But his inability to save Walter bothered him. Unable to prevent his death, he had failed to deliver even a mote of comfort to his patient. Did he not owe this tormented soul some measure of rest, some compensation for his failure?
    He dumped the leeches in the lane and, turning to pull the door shut, hesitated. The cat and the macaw must have been a comfort to the old man. It would be cruel to leave them to starve. At the very least they might make interesting companions.
    The physician set down his medical bag and crossed the room to the bird. He untied its tether, urging the macaw onto his shoulder. The bird flapped its wings, settling on its new perch. Pleased, the doctor wrapped the leather strap around his wrist.
    Tucking the cat under his arm, the physician collected his satchel and headed home.
    For the first time in his life, the physician strayed from accepted convention.

C HAPTER 2
    Two weeks later . . .
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    In the bowels of a dank hovel off Ivy Lane, an alchemist marveled at the brilliant white elixir glowing in the bottom of a vessel. The albification marked months of work. After ten stages of chemical process, here was his reward. The white elixir brought him within grasp of projecting the philosopher’s stone—a substance capable of transmuting base metals into gold.
    But projecting gold was not his desire.
    Ferris Stannum had spent years perfecting the process that led him to this moment. He held the flask up to the light streaming through his one window. The elixir was a most beautiful and satisfying sight. If he wanted, he could continue the sublimation and use the resultant “white stone” to transmute any base metal into silver.
    But even that was not his desire.
    It would be prudent to set a portion aside to pay off his debts. First he would pay his back rent to the widowed Mrs. Tenbrook, whose sour expression grew more rancid every time he saw her. He longed for her to cease pounding upon his door every day at noon. The bells of St. Paul’s called the pious to prayer, but for Mrs. Tenbrook, they reminded her to harass his door.
    There were others who would appreciate his financial attention. He owed money for equipment and ingredients. He owed money at market. He owed money . . . but for the moment, Stannum basked in a rarified light of possibilities instead of the harsh beacon of responsibilities. And why not?
    The elixir was the culmination of weeks of maintaining a brood warmth in the calcinatory furnace. Every night he woke at regular intervals to add a goose egg–sized lump of charcoal to the fire and adjust the air vents. Eventually, the black head of the crow, the caput corvi, yielded to the changing colors of the peacock’s tail. Over the course of weeks, the brew grew lighter in color and more iridescent, until finally, the brilliant white elixir emerged. The elixir he now held in his hand.
    Incredibly, he had avoided a mishap in the early stages with the philosophical egg, a propitious event in itself. The bulbous glass vessel possessed a